In Treatment
by bowtiesandredhair
Summary: Ten years and three psychiatrists. And they continue to tell her that it's only a matter of time before she gets 'better'.
1. Watching

She's pacing back and forth in her head while her eyes distantly drift all around the small, well-furnished room. It's her fifth session and she's already thought up a few dozen new defenses to give when the cold eyes glared at her once again. People and their habits of not understanding and not attempting to, how many times did she have to humor them before it was enough? With her chin resting in her hands and her elbows leaning forward on her knees, she glances to each person who walks through the doors. The idle, nervous chitchat they each exchange, it always makes her so curious. There is this new man who sits across the room, wearing a stained dark green shirt, and swallowing nervously as he slowly scribbles against the paper-fed clipboard. When he pauses to review his work, she catches him nervously scratch at his arm, and suddenly he rises and approaches the sliding window at the front desk. The pale, raw skin was the doing of his nervous tick, and there was such a self-deprecating expression that fell on his face when he thought no one was watching him. From head to toe, he was rather dirty, construction worker, she supposes. He seems like a strong, independent man. His desperation is as clear as the dried sweat stains that hang under his arms. She guesses that the issue must have been severe anger issues, yet judging by the condition of his clean, polished wedding ring and how it is clinging to a dirt-covered hand, it's obvious he's put immense effort in changing and cares deeply for his wife, but she supposes he still must have lost her regardless. He anxiously shuffles in place as a well-dressed man with a fake smile sifts out from behind the heavy door. There is hesitance from the filthy man's part, until his hand is taken in a welcoming shake, and a firm arm slips behind him and guides him through the door, making it all seem so voluntary that he's entering. One unintentional glance is given to her as he disappears past it, and she decides that she must remind him of someone he used to know, yet to her his worn, sad face will just be another she'll remember sometime later. He is someone new to her eyes, someone innocent, and she can only imagine how this place will destroy all the progress he's made.

"Good luck to you." She whispers, and presses her lips tightly together.

She continues to evaluates each individual that passes through the front entrance and then to the creaking door, and she finds herself attempting to wish each one of them well. Though she knows it's inevitable. They will be led through the door, seated down on a suspiciously fancy couch and addressed by a calm, patronizing voice. Before they know anything their money will be spent away talking out issues that were ignored and left unresolved for "next time". Yet each exchanged glance she has in the moments they walk through that door, are almost as if they know better, and she could see how trapped they felt.

All too soon, a plastic-faced woman slides away the front desk window and calls her name in a patronizingly cheery voice. There is a settling nausea that always comes in the pit of her stomach as she walks up to that wide, pearly smile.

"Why, hello!" beamed the teeth. "Ms. Pond, how are you on this _beautiful _day?"

She musters a polite smile, and immediately looks to the forms. Today she has no patience for Mrs. Albrite. With a quick glance to the bright yellow forms to confirm they were still correct, she slides them back to the receptionist and musters another polite smile.

"Well, all righty then." The sing-songy tone escapes her mouth and the pair of chubby cheeks rise as the viciously-tame teeth are hidden by the pressing together of her fat, red lips. "I've just give Dr. Rathborne a ring, and he'll be out in a moment."

"E-Excuse me?" She utters before the bloated pantsuit waddles away. "Mr. Rathborne? I-Isn't the appointment scheduled with Ms. Duncan?"

Ms. Duncan was a thin, dull, old widow whom always had their session with a cup of tea. Literally. Precisely six minutes into their session her assistant, a nervous blond freckled-face girl, would timidly place the cup and saucer beside the beady-eyed crow and made it her mission to escape before she was disapprovingly barked at. For all intents and purposes, she didn't like Ms. Duncan at all. But she had reached a point with her where that was openly known and reciprocated in its entirety. She didn't miss her in any of the seconds they spent apart. But she was….comfortable, she supposed.

"_Oh_," The insufferable woman glances back and forth around the blatantly empty room. "Didn't you hear, dear? Dr. Duncan has gone to see the Lord, I'm afraid."

Amy internally scoffs, "_As if He'd ever let that bitch through the gates._"

"Oh." She murmurs neutrally. "I see."

With a jiggling nod, the pantsuit turns again and waddles off. Amy stands hanging over the counter, and she finds herself anxious with the telling of a new psychiatrist….or _therapist_ as her parents first said when they coddled her with the "suggestion".

"_Number four_." Her thoughts quietly utter, and in the quick moment of the silence, she replays the others.

Mr. Gates; mid-60s, squatty fellow with a thick, tan mustache. It was their twelfth session she discovered what a low tolerance he truly had. But she was only nine when they first began, and he was boasted as the best child psychiatrist in Leadworth. It was her fault for believing such childish fantasies and by their fourteenth session, he had suggested, in the moment she challenged his suppressed anger issues, that she required a "different" type of a mental health professional, and he would be no help.

Mrs. Knoles; late-50s, very tall woman with a long, sad face. Their eighth session regarded depression, and Amy inquired what it was that depressed _her_. Without a word, the woman burst into tears and cry-talked about her husband and the vicious affair he was having against her. She was such an unstable creature, that the thirteen-year old ended up handing tissue after tissue as she continued her breakdown and then delved into the tragic events of her childhood. She was soon asked to resign.

And Ms. Duncan; mid-70s, average height of a shriveled, bitter lady. In their third session, Amy decided to test a theory and in the moment Ms. Duncan turned her back from the cup of tea, she slipped in a few sleeping pills into the steaming drink, and returned to her seat without notice. It took about twenty-one minutes for them to….take effect.

Though perhaps not so much in the last account, she found herself unrightfully hated in some way by each one.

"She's too stubborn." said the irritable man. "And she bit me."

"Very insensitive." said the vulnerable woman. "And she bit me."

"Entirely bitter." said the old shrew. "And she bit me."

Despite anything, their opinions of her always ended with the same phrase. "In my professional opinion, it's possible she requires someone else who is specialized to her-" a quiet, disapproving sniff, "needs."

Thrown away, ran away, and dead. She feeds a strand of her red hair behind her ear thoughtfully at how her fourth could end. Sixth sessions, she decides, until she has this Rathborne transferring. Inevitably, she's anxious at the start of each new psychiatrist, all as if they were her first. But before she starts to prep for the dreary expectations of the fourth, the blimpy woman returns and tells her that Dr. Rathborne will be out in quick a moment.

Her eyes glance to her favored chair, and slowly she allows herself to drift to it for comfort. Her hand brushes against its fabric and immediately the heavy door swings open. She holds its gaze for a few more seconds before she turns to the approaching footsteps. Bald, broad, and cold, is what she guesses and she turns around and her brows lightly furrow out of confusion. There stood a decently tall man, dark brown hair, scruffy face, and she tilts her head curiously as his eyes remain staring down intently at a clipboard in his hand as he scratches his jawline with the other. Apart from the first glance when everything is taken in all at once, her eyes are quickly caught on the long, white lab coat wrapped around his shoulders. To her, he seems so young. Less than ten years her senior, if she has to guess.

"Ms. Pond, is it?" He murmurs, and then quickly glances up at her, and she feels something strange in his bright-eyed stare that immediately puts her on edge. The white smile that spread on his face was infectious, and yet something else. Sincere, it seems. "Hello, my name is Matthew Rathborne." He politely reaches his arm to hers and she pauses to stare at it with a confused expression, yet it only makes him smile more. "That's all right." He retracts, yet his friendly composure doesn't lose one step. "I'm all ready," He watches her as she fixates on the floor tiles, "if you are."

She's flooded with several different aspects, and her reflex immediately overtakes her, causing her to quickly analyze whatever she can and what exactly they meant, and perhaps what they meant to her.

His gentle, kind tone. The way he patiently holds the clipboard in his hands. His eyes, how bright and green and sincere. (_How damn attractive he is. No wait, forget that_.) But it's something else that is leaving her analytical thoughts frozen in the blinding headlights. Something that is only brought to realization with the next words.

The soft, attentive voice murmurs again, "Is everything all right, Ms. Pond?"

Then it hits her.

Scottish_. Damn._


	2. Dancing

She stares at the end of his white coat as it gently rides on the breeze of his fast pace. First impressions were, well, however they were, yet his seemed strangely excited by her presence. As they walk down the narrow, dark-carpeted hallway, she replays in her head the first impression of Mrs. Knoles.

_With a firm, desperate clutch on her shoulder, her mother kept her walking faster than her heavy boots wanted could be carried, and they approached the assistant, all pausing outside of her door._

"_Don't worry, Amy." said her mother in a preoccupied tone, "Just talk out your feelings."_

_Like the passing of a human torch, the assistants hand quickly took the place of her mother's and ushered her into the room. There was a few candles scattered around, and they brought the nose-crinkling smell of an unflattering mixture of each strange scent. All of which were entirely overwhelming. Her eyes scanned up the wooden chair, and quickly stopped at the skeleton-like leg that hung over the other and the long, stick fingers that stiffly folded atop her lap._

_She took a quick glance and internally sighed that the only chair was facing away from the door. Reluctantly, she drifted near it, as her eyes seemed to be caught on every small thing before finally looking the leather-skinned woman._

"_Please, sit." said the surprisingly quiet voice._

She absent-mindedly follows into the decently spacious room, and he pauses a moment to glance back at her blank face. He leans back in his chair, and watches her eyes drift thoughtlessly out of the shaded window.

"Please, have a seat."

She finally snaps back to reality and darts her head to him with a scared look on her face.

"If you wish, of course." He says kindly and then pretends to glance down at a scrap of paper on his desk.

She feels a bit at ease with him not looking at her, and she slowly sits on the small couch, doing her normal habit of glancing around the room to familiarize herself. She could always tell so much by the books they had in their bookshelves. Most of them consisted of the stereotypical "therapy" books stacked together with framed certificates and pictures of family photos. Qualified. Knowledgeable. Personable. However, their façade was always so obvious, yet she at least respected the dedication they had for their role.

Yet in the second she glanced around, and all that she took in, from all the odd doodads and knickknacks scattered around the idle computer and the bright polka dot socks that seemed rather itchy, to the framed picture of him and a woman who looked a few years his senior, her eyes pause on the strange cat pillow that sits crumpled next to her.

He seems to read her mind, "She was my sister's. The cat, I mean."

With an unemotional expression, she glances to him and then back to the pillow. It's one of those print-your-own things that she could hardly understand why anyone would bother smacking a personal picture on a blanket or t-shirt, yet she found the beautiful cat somewhat fitting on it.

"What was her name?" She hesitantly brushes her hand against the bright, blue eyes of the tortoiseshell feline.

He smiles as she takes the pillow in her lap and stares intriguingly, "Fate."

"I'm sure there's some ridiculous story behind that." She traces around the eyes with her finger.

"Of course, it's not a great name if it doesn't have a mad tale."

She gives him an inquiring look, yet he only shakes his head, "Ah, I'll tell you next time. To ensure you'll come back, yeah?"

"Well, that just makes it sound bad." She says quietly. "Do you always need to use a gimmick to keep your clients?"

He chuckles, "Actually you're my first and only client."

Almost immediately, she glances up and gives him a disapproving expression, yet he disarms it by scooping up his clipboard.

"First things first, Ms. Pond. Do you prefer going by Amelia or Amy?"

"Amy." She responds quickly and he nods knowingly to himself. "You don't seem surprised."

His bright green eyes glance up at her, "What's the big fish about a name? I was only being polite."

"Well, what's your first name?" She asks offensively, feeling the strange uneasiness begin to push her in a corner.

He speaks leisurely, "Matthew, or Matt. Whichever you prefer."

"Stop doing that." She clutches the corners of the pillow and bends them inwards in a faint fit of frustration.

"Doing what?"

"Coddling me."

"I didn't know that I was. I apologi—"

"Stop."

He sighs, "Fine. I'll stop talking, you start." She anxiously shuffles in place, "Tell me what you're angry about, Amelia."

Her eyes dart up to his face, and he smiles at the daggers, yet he motions her to talk.

"I'm not angry about anything."

"So you're just a natural biter." He utters quietly.

She scoffs, "See, I knew it. I knew you were just file-reading me."

"I don't even think that's a thing."

"Well, it is. When a case is passed to another psychiatrist, they include a detailed description of the client. What they react negatively to. What they react positively to. Basically your cheat-sheet to manipulate them for your favor, all the while they believe you actually _get _them."

"In the poor piece of paper's defense, it _does _note how distrusting you are."

"I'm not distrusting."

"Really? Who do you trust?" He leans out from his chair and rests his chin in his hand.

"Don't patronize me."

"I want to know, tell me."

She pauses, and stares at him. "I have a suspicion you already assume who I'll say."

"Ah, yes." A quick glance to the clipboard, "Rory and Mels, your friends."

As she looks back to the picture, he follows her gaze and smiles at her attempt to shut him out. It's riveting to him, how her desperation turns her on the offense and she almost knows he knows it, and perhaps it's riveting to her also. In some way. He isn't stupid, the way he talks, the choice of words, his body language. Her thoughts run so quickly she can't deduce what is paranoia and what is fact. Regardless, he dances with her. The others didn't and she misses that faint security and hates how he can read that.

"Who's the woman?" She asks flatly.

"My sister."

Her eyes unemotionally glance back at him, "So what happened to her?"

He tilts his head somewhat curiously at her, and slowly he leans over to his desk and fishes through the knickknacks and retrieves a post-it. "I think we're done for the day."

Amy scoffs at his forfeit, "It's only been like ten minutes."

"Less than that, actually." He admits distantly, tearing a strip from the paper and stretching it over to her. "No worries, first session is on me."

She swipes it from his hand, "What makes you think I'll come back?"

Intrigued, he leans back in his chair and folds his hands behind his head, "'Cause like me, you hated Dr. Duncan. I only met her once and what a bitter crow. You won't find another in this place who will actually admit what a conceited bitch she was."

"Unprofessional." She says, with a strong motion, she thrusts the heavy door open.

She hears the chair squeak in his turn, and she glances back at him as it shuts. "Truth."

Amy drags her feet down the dark-carpeted hallway, hearing the scolding words of her parents, "_Don't scrape up your shoes_", how the voices overlapped with the others. She sifts herself through the exit and hands the slip to Mrs. Albrite, who crinkles her nose regrettably at it.

"Well," she huffs to herself, clackering her plastic fingernails on some keyboard, and replaces every disgruntled expression with the fake smile. "Would you care to schedule another session, Ms. Pond?"

In the distance, Amy's eye catches on the large-moustached man, who she knew to be the head-man in charge, Mr. Reynolds, as he shuffles out of his office and purposely takes another man into conversation. It didn't appear to be anyone she knew, yet even so, it isn't until the white coat finally registers and he mouths, "_See ya' later_", that she glances back to Mrs. Albrite and utters thoughtlessly.

"Yeah."


End file.
